


five things that never happened to casey connor

by Hope



Category: From Dusk Til Dawn (1996), The Faculty (1998)
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe, Crossover, Genderswap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-12
Updated: 2004-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/22540.html</p></blockquote>





	five things that never happened to casey connor

one

casey connor is born on the thirteenth of january, 1982, and her parents bring her home in a second-hand cot, swaddled in a pink blanket. they've converted mrs connor's sewing room into a nursery, pastel wallpaper that grows pink and yellow flowers and butterflies in the first few weeks after casey's arrival; stencils of airplanes and dinosaurs put away until the next time nine months of anticipatory ignorance is upon them.

throughout elementary school she develops a fine tennis arm, but her mother finds her white tennis skirt spotted red four months after her twelfth birthday and mr connor refuses to drive casey to practice once she's started high school. she's encouraged instead to join the school paper and, much to her relief, discovers that she's most comfortable with a camera in her hands. the metal and vinyl weight of it heavy in her palms, freezing a frame of her world instantaneously into a unique work of art, a world in its own right.

when she's sixteen her parents suggest that maybe she'd like to join the cheerleading squad. casey's belly grows a flutter of unease, self-doubt; she's too fair and pixie-faced to fit in with a group of tanned, toned young women, something that delilah, the school paper's editor, has never failed to remind her of. casey comes home from school one day to find a faded, worn (and much mended) cheerleader's skirt and sweater laid out on her bed, no doubt procured by her mother from some rarely-visited cousin and ex-student, and the pink stenciled shapes showing through the gaps between casey's photo-covered walls seem to leap out at her.

casey wants to go to college, wants to learn how to drive and wants to get a job, and isn't even allowed out after seven-thirty, so on the evening of the tryouts she fastens the skirt around her waist, pulls the sweater down over her belly, and rolls her white socks down to just peek over the top of her sneakers.

it's summer, and the air is warm and dry in the twilight as she walks back towards the school, arms folded tightly over her breasts and knees seemingly getting weaker the closer she gets. the inside of the gym is covered with home-made painted banners demanding things like '_feel the sting_', and they only serve to heighten her sense of humiliation as she attempts to move as effortlessly as she's seen the panel of girls sitting before her do, but she can't seem to find a rhythm with such a scornful audience. it's a relief when the music cuts off abruptly, and she doesn't wait to hear their comments before she shoves her way out of the gymnasium and out into the steadily darkening evening.

her throat feels weak but she refuses to let herself cry. of course she'd known all along that she wouldn't have made the squad, regardless of whether she'd managed the routine or not; but she can't help but feeling like one of the school punching bags being slammed groin-first into the flagpole, writhing at their weakness being revealed so brutally, so viscerally.

she takes a shortcut across the football field, hurrying with the night at her heels, but there's still enough light to reveal a cluster of white **H**'s on the bleachers and it's too late for her to turn back now but if she just keeps on walking past them she'll be home in a couple of blocks, to her room with the warm, dim light bulb and beige computer and the universe of black-and-white on her walls.

it reeks of rot and mud under the bleachers, and there are old food wrappers crackling under her back, empty cans digging into her buttocks as she struggles, but despite the mercurial surge of adrenaline that rushes through her to _get away_, there're too many of them. their voices are harsh and deep and echoing in the dark space and she can't hear herself at all, not even her own heartbeat as hands fist around her small breasts and fingers dig deep into the flesh of her thighs, and around her ankles to stop her from kicking. she retches at the sudden searing pain and at the musty taste of mothballs as the hand-me-down sweater is yanked up and stuffed into her mouth.

casey arrives home after eight and her parents confiscate her modem, her stereo, her phone; and eight-and-a-half months later, a tiny baby with coffee and cream skin.

 

two

one afternoon casey gets caught up in the infinitesimal adjustments of light and focus and filters in the dark room and when he finally steps out of the swaddling red the hallways are deserted. he hears raised, outraged voices as he paces cautiously by the closed door of the staff lounge, and one of the double doors at the front entrance of the school is still open, chain hanging ready over one of the massive push-bars.

the square, green digits on his watch tell him it's almost his curfew so he takes a shortcut across the football field, grass thick and green and moist under his sneakers where the rest of the town is dry and brown, dehydrated from the drought. the bleachers are bars of dimly-reflected early moonlight slatted directly in front of him, and as he gets closer casey discerns an orange pin-prick glow amidst them, like a tiny, angry star flaring up and dimming slightly every few seconds.

a few minutes more and he's close enough to determine the dark shape of a body hunched around the ember, and when he's a few yards away (too close to detour, now, and pretend he hasn't seen) he can see more clearly: a girl with longish, lank hair, a white singlet and loose, dark-stained jeans, a faded grey sweatshirt tied around her waist. casey stops a few steps before the where she sits on the second level of the bleachers; her body is slight, young, but despite the obvious exhaustion of her posture, held with an air of self-assurance.

casey clears his throat. her gaze shifts from where it was looking out into the distance, towards the school and across the field behind him. "are... are you okay?"

she squints as if it's daylight, as if she can't see casey properly enough, and holds the cigarette to her lips between the tip of her thumb and forefinger. her cheeks hollow thoughtfully as she draws on it, the ember brightening in excitement before she pulls it away again. the smoke escapes as her mouth quirks up in something that casey would hesitate to define as humour, and she nods slowly.

casey's not quite sure what to do after that; her gaze is stuck on him now as she drags frequently on the cigarette. he shifts from foot to foot indecisively as the moon rapidly rises to illuminate the aluminum benches like fluorescent lights, and he's about to make a break for it and step away when she drops the cigarette butt and stands, grinding it under her heel.

"hey kid," she says, as if she's that much older than casey, and looks down at him from the bleachers. "got five bucks? i'm dying for a coffee and i don't have anything on me."

casey's wrist actually twitches to make an upward movement before he represses it, refusing to check his watch and pushing past a thin wall of unrebellious uncertainty to say, "sure. i'll shout you one."

the diner is brightly lit, the light warmer than it usually seems to casey in daylight, now with the darkness pushing in from the outside. the 'coffee' the girl was dying for apparently involves a side of a burger and fries but casey's not complaining with no other pressing social engagements for him to spend his allowance on. she eats like she hasn't eaten in days and like each mouthful will be her last for days to come, and casey can't keep his eyes off the silver cross that hangs from her neck, swinging from its delicate silver chain over her plate as she leans forward to take huge bites from the burger between her hands.

casey's never been on a date but he's not naive enough to even pretend that that's what this is; a random girl he found sitting on the bleachers who had asked him for money. he wants to talk, wants to ask her _where are you from?_ and _why are you so hungry?_ and _what are you doing in herrington?_ but her eyes are downcast, now, and her table manners seem to brook no interruption, so he just watches, sipping absently at his soda. when she finishes she dabs carefully at her mouth with the paper napkin and considers him intently.

"where are you from?" he blurts out abruptly, treacherous blood rising to his face and no doubt staining it ripely.

"mexico," she answers after a brief pause, then, "my turn. what's your name?"

"casey," he answers without thinking. "casey connor. why... why are you here in herrington?"

a longer pause. "i was visiting a couple of towns over," she nods vaguely over her shoulder. "but it got kinda... kinda dead. i like to be where the action is." she suppresses a burp then waves two fingers at a waitress for the bill. "i'll walk you home, casey."

casey's messenger bag bangs awkwardly against his hip as he walks, strap chafing against his wrist with his hands shoved in his pockets. her singlet glows brightly in the near-complete dark, taking on almost a neon sheen when they step under streetlights. his heart is pounding a little faster, now, faster even than it was earlier as she followed him from the school to the diner, because as they'd stepped out onto the sidewalk she'd fished in her pocket for another cigarette and he'd caught a glimpse of a few other things; a splinter of wood, a shotgun casing, a bic pen filled with white powder instead of ink. casey wasn't stupid, he knew what form cheap, internet-instructed uppers came in, had seen them handed around surreptitiously at his own school. _that's it, then_, he'd thought with a strange sinking feeling, as if he'd expected someone other than a junkie to turn up looking thoroughly fucked-up in the school yard after hours, someone else who desperately needed food and money. someone who he's leading to his house right now.

"well," he says hesitantly, slowing and coming to a stop before his front yard. the front windows of his house glow with the light of the living room lamps, he can hear the quiet buzz of his parents watching television a few yards away. "this is me."

the girl glances at the house, glances up to the second storey where casey's window gazes blankly outwards. "well. thanks for the meal, anyway."

"no problem," casey says, far too quickly, and her expression turns thoughtful again for a moment before she steps in, leans forward abruptly. casey's shoulders tense and his stomach clenches, heart jolts in his chest but she keeps on leaning, past his face and to his shoulder, body still a foot or so away from his, not touching, but she turns her head and her breath on the side of his face makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand right up, goose bumps rushing over his back and swarming up his neck.

she's still for interminable moments and then, without warning, her tongue swipes wetly at his ear. casey yelps in surprise and leaps away, automatically clapping his hand to the side of his head and looking at her with wide eyes. she grins, her first real smile all night, and casey doesn't think he's ever been more puzzled in his entire life.

"you have a good night, y'hear?" she says, stepping backwards away from him, still grinning. "and take care of yourself."

"wait--!" casey half-shouts, hand still clamped over his ear, as she turns away to head back down the sidewalk. "what... what's your name?"

she turns back for a moment, walking backwards with ease. "kate. kate fuller."

"can..." casey takes a couple of hesitant steps towards her, almost involuntarily. he's sure he knows how this is meant to go, but then again, it hasn't exactly gone to formula so far. "can i have your phone number?"

her laugh echoes out against the dim suburban houses, real and soft and strong at the same time. "i don't have a phone number, casey." and with that she turns away again and is jogging down the street, shirt flashing on and off like a light as she runs under the street lights.

when casey can't see her any more he struggles up the porch steps and goes into the house. his curfew is long forgotten, but as soon as he steps in the door his mother bursts from the living room and wraps her arms around his ribs, squeezing tight enough to constrict his breathing. his father is standing behind her, looking more stern and concerned than casey's ever seen him, saying _we were worried to death, son, why weren't you home earlier?_ while his mother half-sobs wetly against his neck, _so glad you're safe, so glad you're safe_. over her shoulder he can see the television, the camera panning slowly over... bodies. rows of them, piles of them, none with a mark on them and the ticker running along the bottom of the screen; _entire population of rural arkansas town wiped out by mystery plague..._

 

three

mrs o'connor's suggestion of 'casey' was too much of a girly name for frank o'connor and so, for reasons unknown, he decided that 'pacey' was somehow more respectable, more worthy. pacey used to wish he could have convinced him otherwise, wish he could somehow go back in time and beat some sense into his father regarding that decision, but yeah, it's kinda too late now when pacey's being rammed balls-first into the flagpole and it isn't even first period yet.

pacey likes to blame his genes for a lot of things in his life. he figures that in the conception process somehow his parents bodies fucked up and decided that this was their chance to get rid of all the reject-dna that they had lying around. shortness. pasty skin. skinny limbs. lack of will-power, lack of any kind of athletic prowess. small penis size. if he was feeling particularly bitter about it, pacey'd find his name quite appropriate; a joke of a name for a joke of a body.

he wears his camera like a mask, creating worlds when he's behind it that he can never exist in, that he'll never exist in. _"do you think you'll ever want to be in front of the camera, pacey?"_ mr greenberg asks in one of their weekly 'sessions', a question to which pacey had always known the answer but answers now with a smirk instead.

pacey figures that if he ever ends up in front of the camera, it will signify the end of his existence. he finds himself dreading the looming promise of college and its anonymity, its utter impersonality that will no doubt leave him unknown and untouched. he welcomes each connection of fist and foot with his flesh because the bruises create a skin that signify a barrier between what's inside him and the rest of the world, that set him as whole and _different_.

he never wants it to change.

 

four

casey feels like he should be panicking feels like he should be freaking out right now but he can't seem to stop his thoughts from rushing past any moment he'd have to carefully consider what reaction was most appropriate right now not that he'd do that anyway because he's just human after all and subject to his emotions slave to his emotions and reactions at any given moment like right now he's kind of oh i guess he is kind of freaking out a bit right now and he thinks he might be going to puke but might not if only he could focus properly if only he could see properly and everything is twisting and blurring and moving though he's not moving and oh fuck oh fuck something is moving in delilah something is moving beneath delilah's skin and casey's skin is crawling in sympathy and he just wants to run run run away but someone's yelling someone's yelling _shoot her_ someone's yelling _shoot her in the head, casey!_ and fuck fuck he has zeke's gun in his hand somehow the gun that zeke was holding before when his hands weren't shaky when casey's hands weren't shaky but they're kind of shaking now when delilah's voice changes a bit and oh fuck oh shit oh fuck he brings his other hand up to steady the one with the gun slippery sweaty in it and it takes a moment for the sound to catch up to him when he's knocked back by something against the draped black plastic in zeke's garage when all that's behind it is the hard concrete wall

_blam_

and oh god oh god casey's hands suddenly ache and he can't stop them shaking at all now and his whole body aches and his throat aches and he can't focus properly can't think properly because this is all wrong, this is all wrong and he struggles to his feet clutching at the black plastic sheets and leaning against the wall and clinging because there's too much movement around him too fast and he can't see properly and oh fuck oh god delilah is standing and her face is a mess red and white teeth and bone and dark hair and casey thinks he might retch only most of him is detached from his stomach and looking down from above as zeke whirls from the cluttered glass of his lab table and throws white at delilah in what used to be her face and casey has to cover his ears as delilah's body shrieks and flails the sound bubbling and burbling till it slumps against the couch and its silent almost except for casey's own rapid breathing that he can't stop can't stop can't stop and then stan stan making a noise stan sobbing _del, del_ and someone retching stokely a shaking black figure behind the lab table against the wall wiping her mouth and oh oh casey's skin hurts and he wants to crawl out of it and oh blonde in his vision, hair over his face and he must have slid to the floor again because marybeth is crouching near him marybeth is getting closer and he thinks he might have made a small noise but he can't be sure because she says _shh_ like rushing water _shh_ soft and soothing and her arms are cool around him and he leans into her embrace because fuck fuck what's happening what's going on what did he do he just wants it to stop now and she murmurs nonsense things into his ear and he just wants this noise to still just wants things to stop happening now and her voice is clear and smooth _that was unexpected, wasn't it casey? never mind. i'll take care of you. i'll take care of you now_ and oh...

oh.

 

five

they go back to zeke's place after, because although stokely herself is evidence that things are OK, things are going to be just fine, they're all shying wordlessly away from it, away from what they'll find if they head back to their homes, alone.

zeke's house is bigger than casey's, with a bigger yard and bigger trees. this time they go into the house instead of the garage and inside it's soothingly dark and dead, clinically clean when zeke flicks on the light in the front hall. the kitchen is just as pristine but for an open loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter sitting on the bench (zeke shoves both into the fridge without a word), and they take turns showering in the ensuite of zeke's parents' room while the other two sit on the bed; silent, exhausted. stokely takes that room, with the sheets tight and stylish, unused for many months.

zeke's room is smaller, a single bed and cluttered desk taking up most of the space with the ceiling sloping down with the roof to crowd a squat, long window closer to the floor. zeke gets extra blankets from the linen closet and throws a pillow down from his own bed; casey wraps himself up and lies down on the floor, clean skin grating and smarting against his still-dirty clothes. zeke turns out the light but leaves the curtains open, and when casey's eyes adjust he can see that the room is still softly illuminated by orange light from the street below, reflected dully on the pale plaster zeke has stuck just below his hairline.

it's so quiet. casey's not sure he can breathe, not sure that time is still moving because nothing else in the room is and he can feel momentum building up in his throat and he's about to choke on it. he clamps down fiercely on the sudden shaking that overtakes his limbs because his body is stupid, his body doesn't understand that it's _over_, now, there's no need to freak out but he's just so _tired_ and he doesn't know what's going to happen, doesn't know what's going to happen now.

casey swallows, and zeke's breathing is loud between the close walls of the room, the rustling of zeke's quilt is loud and when casey looks over he can see zeke's bare legs below his shorts, covered with dark hair and his bare feet silent on the carpet in the two steps he takes before he crouches down next to casey and nudges casey's shoulder with his knee. casey's body responds automatically before he even has time or energy to think about it, going loose and open and he untucks the edge of the blanket and lifts it up with a trembling arm. zeke shifts, shuffles beneath it, presses close so they both fit beneath it and zeke's body is a strip of heat along the side of casey's but zeke's feet are cold against his as zeke folds his knees over casey's in order to fit completely under the blanket.

casey is tense for a moment and pressuring heat threatens to rise, pushing up in his throat and behind his eyes. zeke's arm bands over his chest, curling around his bicep on the other side and zeke's forelock is tickling casey's ear, the wet heat of zeke's breath against his face bringing the tiny cuts alive again, stinging angrily.

casey's almost asleep when zeke moves his head, and casey's mouth is loose and unprepared when zeke's opens over it, covers it with wet heat and dry lips. something in casey's belly lurches and he can feel his heart pounding suddenly against the pressure of zeke's forearm. zeke breathes on casey's mouth for a moment before it opens and he presses down again as if he's resting all his weight behind it; casey's tongue licks hesitantly back and their teeth clash dully together before zeke shifts his head and the damp puffs of exhalation through his nostrils moisten the skin of casey's cheek.

the pillow is thin and casey's head grinds against the hard floor through it as zeke pushes closer, props himself up on his elbow, blankets tenting over them and the orange light casting shadows over zeke's face where his brows are grooved in concentration. his breath is short as he fumbles with the fly on casey's jeans, guiding casey's own hesitant hand to the eager heat in zeke's shorts before curling his hand around casey's cock.

the air rushes out of casey's lungs and he can't seem to get it back, gasping softly against zeke's mouth, their uneven breaths cooling their wet lips as zeke presses his forehead to casey's, his eyes gleaming so close, so dark, demanding casey keep his own eyes open as they stroke jaggedly, zeke's fist harsh and dry around casey, casey gripping tight and fierce.

there's a gradual rush of sound that gets louder and white light glances around the room as a car drives by on the street outside and casey gulps in breath violently and can't get it out again, arches his hips involuntarily to press his hollowed belly against his own hand, eyes closing in reflex as zeke's head slips into the hollow between casey's neck and shoulder, zeke's own hips grinding forward abruptly and trapping casey's hand as sudden heat spills between them.

casey can't keep his eyes open. can't keep silly, trivial things from going through his mind, like _why are we both on the floor when there's a perfectly good bed right there?_ and _does zeke snore? how am i meant to get any sleep anyway, if he's going to be snoring right next to my ear all night?_ but he knows. he knows things will be different tomorrow. things will be better. and that's enough to let him sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/22540.html


End file.
